71`

"Ms. Chen, you have to see this."

Liana's Converse creaked on the art room linoleum as she dragged her teacher over to the easel in the corner. The canvas loomed above, splattered with gold and indigo, the figures blurred but alive.

Ms. Chen scrunched up her brow. "Liana, the project was 'Urban Landscapes.' This is. abstract therapy."

It is therapy." Liana's voice shook. She traced the rough lines where black blended into crimson. "See? That's the freeway overpass. Where Mom jumped me last month. And those gold streaks? Dad's idiot AA meetings. He's always stumbling in the dark."

The art teacher's pen dangled above the critique sheet. "The judges might not… catch the subtext.".

“Who cares what they get?” Liana shrugged, but her hands betrayed her, fidgeting with the hem of her band tee. “I’m done explaining. If they see the cracks, cool. If not… the paint stays.”

At the science fair, Mr. Torres raised an eyebrow at the terrarium pulsing with LED vines. “A ‘Forgiveness Ecosystem’? Liana, this isn’t touchy-feely hour.”

"Symbiosis." She tapped the tablet screen. Time-lapse videos of parched succulents reviving after a bath of chamomile tea—her mom's night routine. "Stress hormones kill plants. Love makes them grow. Duh."

A cluster of juniors snickered. "Did your dad help with the exhibit?"

Liana's knuckles whitened around the tablet. "He helped. Now buzz off before I release the aphids."

The auditorium lights blinded her.

"Project title: The Arithmetic of Apologies," she addressed the microphone, PowerPoint slides flickering in the background. Slide one: a line graph plummeting of trust. Slide two: the Fibonacci sequence mirrored in spiraling grudges. Slide three: her mom's wedding ring, pixelated but identifiable.

The audience gasped.

"Liana, is that—"

"Yeah, Mom's ring." She swallowed hard. "Dad sold it last winter. Called 'priorities.' But here's the thing: gold is just a metal. Trust? That's what matters." The judges glanced at one another.

"And this"—she snapped to the final slide, a photo of her family at the hospital following Grandma's fall— "'is the compound interest of silence. Look at the shadows? They're us. All the unspoken stuff getting larger than us."

A front-row parent sniffled. Someone took a movie with a phone.

At home, Amara washed the dishes from dinner, her wedding band burning in her hand. The front door creaked.

"Mom." Liana's voice was small. "They loved it. The project. They gave me first place in all three categories."

Amara turned slowly. "That's… wonderful."

“But you’re not looking at me.” Liana’s footsteps approached. “You’ve barely looked at me since Grandma’s funeral. You’re waiting for something, aren’t you?”

The accusation hung. Amara’s hands shook. “I’m trying.”

“Try harder.” Liana thrust a USB drive into her palm. “My presentation. Watch it. Actually see it this time.”

The door slammed.

Leo entered quietly, holding a steaming mug. “She won.”

Amara stared at the drive in her hand. “She hates me.”

"She hates the space between us." He set the mug down, sending coffee splashing onto the countertop. "Same as me."

The next morning, Liana found her mom in the garden, knees caked, replanting the rosebushes Leo had trashed last spring.

"Why bother?" she yelled from the kitchen window. "They'll just die again."

Amara didn't look up. "Roots remember. Even when the leaves forget."

Liana hesitated, then stepped outside, her sneakers squelching in the wet soil. “You ever think maybe we’re the ones who need replanting?”

A beat. Then Amara’s laugh, brittle but real. “Your dad tried composting our failures once. The worms rebelled.”

Liana snorted. “Figures.”

They dug in silence, dirt smearing their palms. When Liana spoke again, she was quieter. "I… I'm sorry about the note. The one I left after the truck almost hit me. I didn't mean it."

Amara's trowel hovering in mid-dig. "Which note?"

"The one that said…"

Liana kicked at a rock. ".you know."

"I burned it." Amara's voice was softer. "Along with the lease agreement on the apartment your dad almost signed in Portland."

Liana's head jerked up. "He what?!"

"A month ago. He packed a duffel, called a realtor. Then he… didn't go." Amara made eye contact with her. "He stayed. For you."

The admission hung, heavy.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Liana's throat closed up.

"Because hope's a luxury I can't afford." Amara shook as she gently patted dirt around a sapling. "But maybe… maybe it's not a luxury anymore."

A car horn honked out in the distance. Leo's beat-up old Honda.

Liana wiped dirt off her jeans. "He's taking me to that new comic con. Told me I could bring ten friends."

"Ten?" Amara's brow furrowed.

"Exaggeration. It's his thing." Liana stopped by the gate. "He… he also said if I ever wanted to dig up the violin, the bow's in his trunk."

Amara's breathing stopped.

"Not that I will," Liana said quickly. "But… options, right?"

As Liana ran down the driveway, Amara noticed her daughter's shoulders relax for the first time in months.

The front door shut behind her.

Leo's voice came through the window: "You ready to geek out, kid?"

"Only if you stop calling me 'kid'!"

Their laughter mingled, sloppy and real.

Amara smiled, then froze.

On the kitchen counter, the USB drive Liana had left her sat untouched.

Under it was a crumpled pawn shop receipt.

And a Polaroid of the three of them at the beach—before the storm—Grandma’s camera tilted crooked, sand in their hair.

Amara’s breath hitched.

On the back of the photo, in Liana’s shaky handwriting:

“We’re made of apologies. Let’s practice forgiveness.”

The front door opened again.

“Mom?” Liana’s voice carried urgency. “Dad says the con’s sold out. But there’s this guy scalping tickets—”

Amara didn’t hear the rest.

Her eyes locked onto the Polaroid’s timestamp:

3 DAYS BEFORE GRANDMA'S FUNERAL

The Polaroid hadn't been in the pawn shop envelope.

Hadn't been in Liana's room.

Hadn't existed, as far as Amara knew.

She sat down on the porch steps, the photo trembling in her hand.

Somewhere, a screen door slammed.

"Amara? You okay?!"

Leo's footfalls boomed up the sidewalk.

She didn't look up.

"Where… where did this come from?"

Leo froze on the step.

The Polaroid blew to the lawn.

"You kept it," Amara gasped, her voice breaking. "All this while… you kept it."

Leo's silhouette fell over hers. "I told you so. Roots remember."

The Polaroid's date flashed in the dying light.

3 days prior to a funeral that hadn't yet taken place.

Someplace, a clock rewound.